


feeling no pain

by sabinelagrande



Series: Sundown [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM Scene, Dom Crowley (Good Omens), Dom/sub, Dungeons, Electrical Play, Exhibitionism, Flogging, M/M, Maledom, Non-Sexual Kink, POV Multiple, POV Outsider, Sub Aziraphale (Good Omens), Tortured Analogies, Vignettes, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 07:55:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19786564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabinelagrande/pseuds/sabinelagrande
Summary: He watches.





	feeling no pain

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to [what you don't confess](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19749901) and makes considerably more sense if you read that first.
> 
> Tags failed me in regards to what is / and what is & and what is neither, so know that Aziraphale watches Crowley doing nonsexual kink with someone else in this story. Everyone involved is Into It, but if you're not, be advised.

**1.**

If Max had known that would be the last time with Mister Crowley, he would have done things differently.

He doesn't know exactly what that would have looked like. As it happened, Mister Crowley beat him until he was shaking and fucked him until he screamed, and that was just the first hour. But he would have made some kind of effort, maybe just to catalogue it, knowing he wouldn't get more.

Max didn't actually meet Mister Fell- always Mister Fell, not just Fell, and definitely not Angel, even though it was pretty much the only thing Mister Crowley called him- until after he and Mister Crowley got together. It was a very sudden thing; it happened like that all the time, people getting together elsewhere and just showing up, but it felt different. That was probably because Mister Crowley was the ultimate in free range. He seemed indefatigable in the dungeon, and he'd spread it around until the party shut down, which always seemed to be hours later than usual when he was there.

Max is a little in love with Mister Crowley, because everyone who has ever had a submissive moment in their lives is a little in love with Mister Crowley. He has just the right mix of playfulness and silky menace, like he'd devour you and laugh about it, but only if you asked very nicely.

Max is considering all of this because Mister Crowley and Mister Fell have just walked in together; they're bickering softly, but both of them are smiling. The red lights near the doors glint off of Mister Fell's collar, which is the kind of understated, highly specialized gold jewelry that cost two hundred pounds if it cost a penny. He cannot for the life of him see where it joins, which means it's spectacularly well made.

He is thinking about this in preference to everything else, because it's easier to handle.

Mister Crowley tends to pick a couch and sprawl over it, even when the couch already contains people, but this time he sits in what is referred to as The Throne, an ancient-looking chair that's mostly used by bootblacks and people who like to use other people as ottomans. It leaves Mister Fell standing in front of him; Mister Crowley spreads his legs, and Mister Fell turns and sinks to his knees between them. Max would have sworn there wasn't a pillow on the floor beforehand, but he must have been wrong, because that's what Mister Fell lands on. It leaves him facing out into the dungeon, and highly visible to the rest of the assembled.

Mister Crowley and Mister Fell look completely wrong together. It looks like if you took a car show and shuffled it at random, leaving a matte black Aston Martin Vantage next to an original Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost; they're both clearly high quality and geared towards the same general purpose, but they're barely even the same shape.

Then again, Mister Crowley drives a vintage Bentley, so maybe he just likes that kind of thing. It's also possible it's a bad analogy.

At the same time, the two of them look like they've been together for ages and ages. It's in the way they touch each other, the way they move in each other's space. It all looks so comfortable, so accustomed. Max wonders how long it's really been; they have to have known each other for years, or else they're extraordinarily lucky.

Mister Crowley strokes his hand through Mister Fell's hair, saying something that Max can't hear. Mister Fell rests his head against Mister Crowley's knee, looking peaceful and proud at the same time, which comes out as self-satisfied. It's hard to look at, somehow, for reasons that have nothing to do with Max's jealousy, like he's trying to stare into a heat lamp.

It comes to him then, in a flash of realization, that it's more like trying to stare into a laser. All of Mister Crowley's energy, enough to fill up the whole dungeon, has been focused in one direction, honed down to the finest point and placed onto one specific spot. Everything is for Mister Fell, no one else, all of that force brought to bear on one goal.

Max shivers just thinking about it.

A hand strokes along Max's shoulder, distracting him, and he turns to find its owner looking at him. She's an Amazon of a woman, and she towers over him, especially in heels. "A little preoccupied, are we?"

"Sorry, mistress," he says sheepishly. It's only their first time together, and he's already fucking up.

"Come along, sweetie," she says, in her deep, honeyed voice, and it does pleasant things to his insides. "By the time I'm through with you, you won't remember anyone's name but mine."

"Yes, mistress," he says, and he eagerly trails along behind her, already thinking about what's in store.

**2.**

"You're still sure, angel?" Crowley asks again.

"I am," Aziraphale says, settling on a convenient pile of cushions. "You have my blessing."

Crowley rolls his eyes, but it's fond. He turns away, surveying the crowd. "Her?"

Aziraphale follows his gaze to find a beautiful young woman, talking to two other people. Aziraphale recognizes her; he doesn't know if she's ever played with Crowley, but he's watched her play with someone else. He remembers her laugh distinctly, how it rang out as a whip fell over and over on her back.

"Oh, yes, please," Aziraphale says. 

She happens to look over, and Crowley extends one long finger, crooking it at her. She drops the conversation she's having and comes to him immediately. There's nothing demonic or miraculous about her speed; Crowley gets that through a combination of reputation and sex appeal. 

"Angel, this is Lillian," Crowley says, putting an arm around her waist. "Lillian, this is Mister Fell."

"Charmed," Aziraphale says, and means it.

"What do you say to a round in the cuffs?" Crowley asks her.

"With both of you?" Lillian asks.

"Just me," Crowley says. "Mister Fell is going to watch."

She looks apprehensive. "Is this a cuckolding thing?"

"No," Aziraphale says, smiling warmly at her.

"He just likes to watch me hurt gorgeous people," Crowley says, in a voice that makes Aziraphale's spine go liquid even though it's not directed at him.

"Well, then," Lillian says, trying to play it cool and only seeming more eager. "In that case, I accept."

"Perfect," Crowley says. He hefts the black bag that's sitting beside Aziraphale. "Then come right this way."

Aziraphale realizes quickly that they have played before, but it fails to spark any jealousy in him. He is, in his own way, also possessive. It doesn't look a thing like Crowley's version; the only thing that drives him to that level is people trying to buy his books. Crowley is not a book. Aziraphale wants to show him off, let everyone see how good Aziraphale's luck is, to be in the care of such an exquisite creature. There are, to be sure, things he doesn't want Crowley doing with other people, but beating them is not one of them.

Crowley opens his bag as Lillian undresses. She is very lovely, with thick thighs and generous curves; she looks soft, Rubenesque, in a way that Aziraphale very much enjoys, and he knows Crowley picked her for that reason. 

Aziraphale's interest in women is entirely aesthetic, but that doesn't mean he can't know what he likes.

The suspension cuffs are new; there are some in one of the back rooms, something Aziraphale considers unsafe, but the ones on the floor are recently installed. Crowley adjusts them with an expert eye before standing Lillian underneath them, saying a few last things to her that Aziraphale can't hear. She nods in agreement, wrapping her hands around the bars in the cuffs and letting Crowley buckle her in. She tests them out, moving this way and that, picking her feet up off the floor, but it looks like things are ready to proceed.

A thrill goes through Aziraphale when he realizes that using them, he's not going to see Crowley's back, like he would if they were against the wall; he's going to see their faces. He can see the pleased anticipation on Lillian's, the way she's trying to regulate her breathing as she waits for Crowley to strike. Crowley looks out from behind her, straight at Aziraphale, and gives him a smile, one that Aziraphale returns.

Crowley starts by running his hands over Lillian's body, like he's mapping it, familiarizing himself with all of her. She shuts her eyes, sighing, and relaxes back against him. He drags his nails over her skin, and they leave faint red lines in their wake. There's a peaceful look on her face, but she gasps as Crowley slaps her bottom, the sound of it loud in Aziraphale's ears.

One day soon, Crowley is going to ask him if he wants to do this. Aziraphale is probably going to say yes; some early experiments with fingernails and teeth have gone quite well. But Aziraphale doesn't know if he'll ever like it as much as watching Crowley work, the way he pours himself into it.

Crowley has been practicing this whole business in one form or another basically since its inception, and the cultivation of it, the skill that only comes from time, it speaks to Aziraphale in the part of him that cares about _craft_. When Crowley sets his mind to do something, it gets done, with intense focus and immaculate care. The only other things that he's been this devoted to for multiple decades are his plants and the Bentley.

And maybe, just maybe, Aziraphale. 

Crowley steps away for a moment, and Lillian jumps and grins as he walks away, no doubt because he got in a pinch before he left. He goes to his bag, his lovingly curated collection of toys waiting for him, and Aziraphale watches as he selects one, swishing it through the air. It is, of course, perfectly balanced, because Crowley didn't give it a choice not to be, and it moves easily with the slightest working of Crowley's forearm and wrist. Lillian can see none of this, and the eagerness she feels is palpable. Crowley walks back over slowly; Aziraphale knows that his footsteps don't make any sound if he doesn't want them to, and she can't hear him coming at all.

Lillian cries out when Crowley strikes her, bringing the flogger down hard, but it's not a cry of anguish. It's a bright, high sound, like she's delighted to have been surprised. Aziraphale bites his lip without thinking about it and leans forward, watching as the flogger falls again and again. Lillian takes it with a smile on her face, relaxing into the feeling of it. Crowley's movements have a fluidity to them, not too showy but with a kind of sinister grace; this is not a surprise to Aziraphale.

He watches raptly as Crowley works. Lillian is beautifully responsive, especially when Crowley starts in with his stinger, an electric toy that Aziraphale doesn't quite understand and doesn't need to. It delivers short, sharp shocks, and Lillian tries her best to get out of range of it, yelping and laughing as Crowley tags her over and over. She uses the play in the cuffs to try and get away, but Crowley grabs her around the waist and pulls her back into position. While she's not paying attention, he swaps out the shock toy for a heavy, stiff flogger, and Lillian screams in delight, the sound ringing out for a moment before it's swallowed by the beat of the music.

Lillian is just so very happy about what's being done to her. There's the smug satisfaction of knowing she's doing this with Crowley, but it pales in comparison to how she feels in her body, the transmutation of pain into pleasure that only a corporeal human form can really accomplish. In this moment, she is perfected; there is no doubt in her mind that she is a spectacular being, a being made to be hurt and love it.

She is feeling none of these things in words, but that's just how it comes across to Aziraphale, who's enough in his head to translate what's coming out of hers. He usually can't even read minds, but hers is screaming, the energy rolling off her in waves. It feels hot enough to bask in, and that's what Aziraphale's doing, soaking in the sensation. The sheer, uncomplicated pleasure of it hits him deep down, satisfies the part of him that feels only love.

Aziraphale, who has no experience with the subject, thinks that this must be what getting high feels like. He's close to right, but this is better.

He can see when it begins to taper off, when she begins to tire, and he knows Crowley sees it too. He finally puts his toys aside, speaking softly to her, supporting her body with his as he undoes the cuffs. She flexes her hands experimentally, but they seem to be okay. Crowley carefully walks her over, sitting her down on the cushions next to Aziraphale.

Lillian is deep under; Crowley will have told her his terms regarding aftercare, so Aziraphale puts an arm around her, letting her rest her head against his shoulder. Aziraphale loves a good cuddle, and he doesn't even mind that she's quite sweaty; as with all inconvenient bodily fluids, he'll just make Crowley clean him up later. She makes a murmuring noise, leaning into his side, and Crowley sits down next to her, a hand on the small of her back so that she knows he's there.

"I hope you liked it," she says fuzzily.

"Oh, it was just lovely," Aziraphale says with a sigh. "You looked so good up there, my dear."

"Thank you," she says softly.

"And you as well, darling," he tells Crowley. "Both of you looked simply good enough to eat."

"That's high praise, coming from you," Crowley says.

"It really is," Aziraphale says. He strokes Lillian's hair, and she sighs. "That was perfect," he tells her. "Thank you so much." He pulls out a blanket, maybe from beside the cushions, maybe from the aether, and settles it over her. "Now, you just take as much time as you need."

She doesn't say anything, just settles onto Aziraphale as Crowley runs a soothing hand over her thigh. Crowley looks over her head at Aziraphale, and Aziraphale just smiles back at him, feeling happy and loose, filled up with a pure kind of joy that it's hard to get anywhere else.

He lets out a satisfied sigh, and Crowley's lips curl into a grin.

**3.**

Aziraphale is snoring gently.

He professed to not liking sleep; he hadn't done it in ages until quite recently. But Crowley took him to bed- Crowley's, the big soft one with the nice sheets- and worked him over until he was boneless, whispering into his ear the whole time, and afterwards Aziraphale was cogent for maybe ten minutes then passed straight out.

It's happened twice more, including just now. Crowley doesn't mind at all; he loves to sleep, and there's no reason Aziraphale shouldn't indulge as well. Aziraphale is always so startled when he wakes up, and Crowley enjoys it maybe more than he should, how he looks sweetly rumpled, blinking owlishly.

He hasn't woken up yet, hence the snoring, and Crowley is lying next to him, admiring him. There's a lot to admire; he fell asleep face-down, the sheets only coming up to his waist. The expanse of his back is readily visible, and this is what Crowley is studying. Aziraphale's back is crisscrossed with red lines; some of them are thicker than others, and in a few spots they intersect with teeth marks. Crowley put each and every one there, while Aziraphale begged him for more.

Aziraphale has turned out to be one of those people who calls pain "strong sensation" and is willing to try anything that doesn't involve fire; lucky for him, Crowley's great strength is his imagination. He certainly put it to use tonight, with some items from the hardware store and a well-placed vibrator and this thing he had to miracle into existence just because it didn't exist and he really needed to smack Aziraphale with it.

He's going to let Aziraphale name it, when he comes to. Aziraphale will be delighted.

Speaking of which, Aziraphale will be waking up any moment now, probably. He'll startle awake, asking how long he's been out, and once he gets his bearings, he'll look down at himself and tut about what a mess Crowley has made of him. Crowley will smooth his hand down Aziraphale's back, and the marks will disappear. If he asks nicely- and he will- Aziraphale will let him leave a few; he's particularly lenient regarding the state of his thighs. Crowley wonders if this is because Aziraphale can see them, unlike his back, but he hasn't asked.

But Aziraphale is still asleep, so Crowley is still watching him, admiring the marks on his skin while he can. How he feels about Aziraphale is infinite, far too much to hold in his hands at once; sometimes he has to break it down to even grasp it, into a thing that he says or a way that he holds a glass or the appearance of lines on his skin. He is so utterly taken with, taken by Aziraphale that he can't see the bottom anymore, but he doesn't even care. He knows whose side they're on, and that's all that matters.

"Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments," Crowley says under his breath.

Aziraphale rouses, whether woken by Crowley's voice or for no reason at all, rolling over. This isn't like the other times; he looks at Crowley first, not hard because Crowley is propped up on an elbow, looking down at him.

"My dear," Aziraphale says, sounding sleepy, and he raises up so that he can kiss Crowley sweetly.

"You were really under," Crowley says, with more than a little pride.

"Mmm," Aziraphale says. "I really think I was."

Crowley pulls Aziraphale to him, and Aziraphale goes gladly. He wraps his arm around Crowley's waist, nudging at Crowley until he rests his chin on the top of Aziraphale's head. His fingers come up to brush Aziraphale's collar; it only exists when it needs to, but right now Crowley needs to see it.

"If I can wake up like this, I think sleep might not be so bad after all," Aziraphale says.

"I'll see what I can do," Crowley says. He rolls them, getting on top and pushing Aziraphale down into the bed, and smiles sharply at him. "But let me give you some incentive to be awake."

"I'm open to many forms of persuasion," he says, and Crowley kisses the grin off his face.


End file.
